Rough Draft

Can you grant me one last wish,
Play russian roulette as we kiss.

When I was young, I used to drag my blanket along behind me wherever I go. It was especially so when my parents are away, or when I fell sick. My blanket was my trusted companion, soaked with years of tears. I bury my head into it and cry all the time. It was the same in many occasions, like when Mum and Dad fought in the past, when I see toys that I want but never could have, and when I couldn't reach the chocolates on the highest compartment in the fridge. While children these days grow emotionally attached to their maids who are by their side 24/7, it was my blanket that watched me grow up. I still recall the times when I try to explain my sadness to the grown-ups around me, but it never did worked once. But it was my blanket who seemed to understand, and even though speech was never an option with it, its presence gave me silent security, and needless to say, warmth.

Of course, it wasn't all sadness and tears. I remember that when no one was at home, I'd tie my blanket around my neck and 'fly' across the living room, pretending that I'm the invincible Superman. I'd jump up and down on the sofa, and do all kinds of silly things. It's a wonder how we used to entertain ourselves as kids when we were young.

I'll be your cheap novelty.
Blow your brains out on me.

I guessed I failed in my attempt to burn myself out today. An afternoon spent playing soccer went a long way in making sure my temperature rise considerably, but I was able to last through the day. Now, the fever's taking its toll on me, and it's a good thing that dear 'ol blanket is always there, rain or shine.

I'm still sane. It's just that sometimes, when everything crashes into you like freight trains, it's only normal to retaliate with everything you've got. And it's when you lie exhausted and gasping for breath, when your mind's left spinning and your knuckles bruised, that you pick up your blanket, and continue that lonesome path down the dark, cold tunnel.

You can be my james dean.
And I'll be your sweet queen.

After all, no ordinary freight trains can stop Superman, can they?

posted by cigarettelove @ 4:16 AM